Harry's Café
by LeonaWriter
Summary: Long after the Doctor's gone, there's a strange place where strange people meet, run by an even stranger person.  The story is never truly over.
1. The Café

Harry's Café

... ... ... ...

When Time has gone on for a very long stretch, and the Doctor has been and gone, there stands a café, a strange place, where strange people meet and gather. It sometimes changed place, or at least appeared to, popping up in the most strange and unimaginable places, to suit the most strange and unimaginable groups of clientèle.

Susan found her way there one day after school; Ian and Barbara a few months after making it home from their many adventures with the Doctor; Dodo had wandered past, but never thought much of it; Jo seemed to never be rid of the place; Sarah Jane often wrote up her notes there, unafraid; Tegan would go there to remember, sometimes; Ace came and went, looking different every time; Grace found it only once or twice, but traded stories of both the strange and the familiar; Mickey went there often, sometimes without even realising which place it was, to drown his sorrows at first, and later for the atmosphere; Martha never seemed to care for the place, but she came back time and again; Donna temped there twice - the first time, she became locally famous, the second, they stared, and hardly said a word; Wilf found the place once, and that was all; Amy and Rory came whenever they could, and were respected - to a point... and River Song would sit in there for hours on end, simply talking, but only when there was no one else around.

Jack, of course, was a regular - but only really up until a certain point. Then, his visits became sparse, few and far between. But they still happened, and in the general scheme of things, it wasn't really all that long until he started coming back again, same as he always had.

The proprietor, of course - the Harry that the sign invariably declared as the café's owner, despite the many years that went by - was the strangest of them all. He with the salt and pepper hair that might once have been black, and the beard - which, he said, was simply for old times' sake. He'd sit at the bar, which was a round thing, always dressed smart and charming to any and all who came by. Some would look at him and think that they recognised a familiar face, but look away, thinking that they had surely been mistaken, never quite meeting the man's eyes. And they were old, old eyes, eyes that had seen far worse things than even the hardened soldier, fighter, warrior or victim that ever stepped foot inside, eyes that had seen far more grief and loss and excitement than those who hadn't been home for such a long time.

Fights were not to be allowed in the café, but were on the street, if they didn't draw attention - "This place is a state of grace," he'd say, but the look on his face when such things happened, oh so rarely, was one of pure nostalgia.

The café itself had a warm, friendly atmosphere, similar to the room you grew up in as a child, where everything was safe and secure. Yet there was, at the same time, a quality of age to the place, of a kind that few could put into words that would fully describe the sensation. It would creak and groan at times, and at others there seemed to be a sad, melancholy sort of song coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. At times, it would seem as though the owner talked to the building itself - sometimes fondly, sometimes decidedly not so. There would be strange looks sent in his direction, and fond smiles of old times shared, but never anything said to his face.

And then, one fine day that was the middle of the night somewhere, with a sky that had clouds bearing rainstorms somewhere over its planet, a man walked in wearing a long military coat and a swagger. He collapsed on a seat right in front of the bar, stroking the coral-esque top. A jaunty grin was on his face as he called out which didn't entirely meet his eyes, eyes that were too old, far too old, eyes that remembered wars fought and battles won, lovers loved and labours lost, years come and past and never forgotten, that never forgot what it was to live.

"You know, I still can't quite believe she chose you of all people," he said, making the owner smirk at a memory filled with irony. "Whatever." He shook his head. "You can make mine a hypervodka on the house, Saxon."

Harry 'Saxon' glared at the man mildly. "How many times have I told you to not call me that any more?"

Jack Harkness laughed. "Never enough, Saxon. Never enough. And where's that hypervodka, eh, Old Girl?"

A shot glass found its way resentfully underneath the correct pump, which then proceeded to pour by itself.

... ... ... ...

AN: Harry is the name that the Master took when he was running for Prime Minister. And then there's that line of 'it ought to be' which wouldn't leave me alone.


	2. Susan

Susan

"_I like walking in the English fog."_ –Susan, An Unearthly Child (pilot).

...

Susan first found the cafe on her way home from school one foggy day. She'd gotten herself slightly lost, and taken a wrong turn, and there it was, bright and welcoming and warm. She knew the moment she stepped inside that this was no ordinary sixties cafe, any more than she was an ordinary sixties schoolgirl. She'd frowned at the decor, at the patrons. Some of them didn't even look human.

She raised a hand to her mouth and put her fingers to her lips, murmuring. "I don't think this is even allowed..."

"Probably not," came a voice to her side. "But I don't think that many of us in here are the type to care for what is or isn't 'allowed', Miss...?"

"Foreman," she supplied, sure that no one would be able to track her from the fake name that she and her grandfather had taken on upon their arrival here. But there was something else, as well - something that lead to her feeling much more relaxed than she supposed she should, especially around strangers. It was strange, because it felt like home. Except, she didn't have one, any more. All the home she had now, since leaving Gallifrey, was grandfather's TARDIS, the one that he'd stolen to get them away.  
>She took the liberty of casting a real glance around.<p>

"I suppose it doesn't seem like a bad place. But who-" She'd turned to look at the owner of the voice, and gasped, hand flying back to her mouth in shock - she felt that she recognised this man, not the face, perhaps, but maybe something else... she shook her head. "Sorry," she said breathlessly. "I thought for a moment I knew you."

The man smiled charmingly. "I get that a lot, don't worry about it. Anything you'd like?"

"What do you sell?"

She could be bold. Maybe it was how nice he was being, or maybe it was the place itself.

"Whatever you want, within reason," he replied easily.

"I - I think I'll have a lemonade," she suggested.

"All right, one lemonade for the lady."

A glass was found from somewhere, and filled. He pushed it toward her over the counter and she looked at him, questioning.

"But how much does it cost?"

He shook his head, as though amused that she was even asking.

"For you, I think this one can be on the house."

"Oh! Thank you - that's awfully nice of you..."

Halfway through the drink, which was very good indeed, he asked a question.

"So, how long have you been here?"

She stilled. "Not very long, I think." Just because he was pleasant did not mean that she trusted him as much as to let out her and grandfather's best kept secret.

But the man sighed, and looked at her, and she was struck once again by how she was sure that she had seen him before somewhere. And those eyes, those old, old eyes...

"You shouldn't worry yourself. No need. It's hardly as though someone like me could tell anyone who mattered."

"Even so..." she trailed off, unsure what else she could add to that. He smiled - or was it more like a smirk this time? He really was a strange, strange man - but didn't pursue it any further.

"Never mind," he said instead. "Like I said - don't worry about it. Maybe some other day."

As she left, fog still in the air but clearing now, she thought about it. Maybe she would go back. She thought about telling grandfather about the strange, odd old man with the salt and pepper hair who dressed smartly for the pokey little cafe-come-bar, but for some reason, she never quite got around to it.

...

AN: I'm uncertain when it comes to Susan's 'voice'. But I think I did well enough... I'd like to think that she finds the place again, after finding David.


	3. Martha Jones  1969

Martha Jones – 1969

...

In 1969 London, Martha Jones, a girl of the twenty first century, felt decidedly out of place. The Doctor wasn't much use, either - he spent most of his days in their rented flat cobbling up pieces of unbelievable technology that would hopefully help to get them home, often carrying on all through the night, never mind about her and the fact that she needed to have at least a good few hours of sleep in preparation for the next day of work in the late sixties.

So it wasn't all that rare that she'd be out on her own, without the Doctor, making her own way and finding her own friends and meeting new people. The only thing that was different this time was that she'd never gone down this street, never seen this café before. Just a little place, easy enough to walk past, but something about it seemed welcoming, and the door seemed warm to her touch.

Someone elbowed the man behind the bar, who scowled, then looked around. The moment the man saw her, he grinned, which she noticed the moment she turned back after closing the door behind her. Along with the fact that almost everyone in there seemed out of place in sixties London, some of them making her wonder how on Earth - quite literally - they went around whenever they were outside, because this was obviously some kind of Star Wars cantina type of place, where everyone mixed with anyone, no matter who they were or why they were there. She sent a confused smile and wave over to the man who'd grinned at her, and headed over.

"Er, sorry, but do I know you?"

He looked at her, and she found it unnervingly like the way the Doctor would sometimes look disparagingly at someone who had fallen short, but at the same time he was smirking, as though laughing at a joke only he knew the punchline to.

"Oh, probably not. No, I doubt it." He laughed, and headed over to give a pint of... something, Martha couldn't tell exactly what, to someone at the other end of the counter.

"He's always like that with nearly everyone," said a voice next to her. "Hardly tells anyone hardly anything, but knows far too damn much, for my liking." The owner of the voice was a man, but apart from that she couldn't tell, as his features were covered by a cloak, the hood up and shadowing much of his face that wasn't already covered.

Martha frowned. "Then why come here? If you don't trust him? Or... whatever?"

The man looked at her blankly, as though not understanding the question. "Because Harry's is Harry's. If you don't get it yet, you will."

"Chinwagging about me behind my back again, are you?" The man tutted. "You know, that's not very nice."

The man with his face hidden laughed. "Neither is flaunting that you know someone's future!"

Martha shook her head at the two of them and a thought occurred to her.

"Hang on, tell me something. Why is this place called a café when it's more like a pub?"

'Harry' smiled, eyebrows creasing together in thought, a hand scratching at the nape of his neck. "Probably because this is the kind of place one goes to wind down, I suppose. Nostalgia, maybe? You lot do like a bit of nostalgia. Then again, I don't think there are all that many species who wouldn't." She wondered at that - another thing that made him similar to the Doctor, all that talk about humans as being different, inferior, and yet not like the Doctor at all - but then he was off and the thought was lost. "We do food as well. Made out back."

She looked behind the bar, and sure enough there was a door the same colour as the rest of the wall, leading off - she assumed - to wherever the kitchen was, and any of the more personal aspects hidden from the customers.

"In that case," she said, amused, "I'll have a full fry up. Famished, I am."

A full week of working for two and having to put up with the Doctor had done wonders for her appetite.

"That, I can do. Anything else?" he asked as he went off towards the door she'd only just noticed.

"Yeah," she said. "A pint."

"A pint and a full fry up for Miss Jones, then," he said - right as he disappeared.

She stared after him, in shock.

"But - I never told him my name..."

The man beside her shrugged.

"Nothing to worry about. He's already met you, remember."

...

AN: I do have plans to also do at least one with her... _after_ a particular Important Event. Which may be fun to write.


End file.
